Piers busied himself examining the watermill until two men and a woman poked their heads around the door. Hugo knew them all and greeted Councillor Sarah Harding, vice-chair of Planning and Development Control, and Councillor Aminur Govind, from Licensing, particularly warmly. Killian O’Malley, the young interior designer, was soon leaping about the place. Phrases such as “eighteenth-century mill!” and “one of the last flour mills on the river driven by wheels!” floated down and across to them from various parts of the building.
“Hugo!” Piers was an impatient sod. “What are we looking at?”
“A dinner theatre,” he replied, watching their faces. “A one hundred and fifty seat theatre with a restaurant for pre-theatre meals, and also a bar. Here, I thought, with the watermill a part of it. But what do I know?” He gestured to Killian, whose green eyes were lit up, electrified, as he paced about.
“A dinner theatre?” Piers felt Hugo’s forehead. “Doesn’t seem feverish, but seems to think we’re in the early 1970s,” he commented to the group.
“A dinner what?” Aminur asked.
Hugo explained the concept, of dinner and a show, the former ranging from buffet-style meals to a full menu, the latter any kind of live entertainment from established musicals to new plays by young up-and-coming writers, perhaps local. The full bar could be hired for events. There was parking, both on the island and across on the riverbank. It would be a collaboration between local businessmen investors, a restaurateur or restaurant group and a bar, all coordinated and overseen by a director. Oh, with the artistic director in sole charge of the theatre, of course.
“Of course.” Piers blinked, shoving his curls back from his eyes.
“And you’ll what, connect financiers with the project? Back it yourself? Then manage it?” Sarah asked, her head on one side. “Don’t you have your hands full with Whyte’s?”
“The art gallery’s doing well and Xander Whyte’s managing fine, needing less and less input from me. I’m really only there a day or two per week for bookkeeping now,” Hugo explained.
“And…the other business you currently oversee?” Piers asked, his voice even.
Hugo was glad for the discretion with which Piers mentioned the side-line, Ubermensch, that Xander had set up and persuaded Hugo into helping build and run, despite his misgivings. The dating app, enabling ladies to hire cultured, charming, gentlemanly assets, not escorts, was proving a success, though. He shrugged. “Same thing there.”
“Well, you do have a head for business.” Sarah nodded. “Oh, all that was nothing to do with planning permission, by the way. I’m just being nosey!”
“I’d rather have something other than housing being built here. I’d like to see something that will really rejuvenate the area, stimulate the local economy, and be good for the city,” Hugo told them.
“My friend, you should run for City Mayor!” Aminur clapped Hugo on the back. “Join the Council, get experience of local government, then run!”
Piers groaned. “Don’t give him any more ideas.” Sarah and Aminur were talking together, fielding questions from Killian, saying they didn’t see any difficulties about permits or licenses, once health and safety norms were met and… Piers pulled Hugo aside.
“Hu, please take this in the spirit in which it’s meant, but when did you last get laid?”
“Darling.” Hugo couldn’t resist; his voice pitch-perfect Piers. “I do like you, of course I do, and a helluva lot, but strictly as a friend.” He fluttered his eyelashes and did a Piers-pout. “Oh, what the hell. Let’s go for it! Buy me a huge drink and—”
“Idiot!” Piers shook with laughter. “Look, this dinner theatre is a fantastic idea—crazy and unfeasible and one to which I’ll say yes, obviously —but it’s the latest in a line of venture capital projects for you, you realise?”
“It’s what I do.” Hugo stared at Piers. “Where are you going with this?”
“To dinner and a show and to get you drunk and laid, apparently.” Piers kicked at the wheel. “Just wondering…do you miss the army?”
“Of course.” It felt like another life. “I miss being married too.” As did that. “But I’m doing this now.”
“I see that.” Piers nodded. “Well, if you ever want to talk about it, this compulsive behaviour, taking on project after project, oh, and your relentless womanizing—”
“Erm, that last would be Xander? Well, would have been, until last month?”
Piers winked, making a clicky sound with it. “Oh, yeah. Well, I guess it’s all good deeds, right? I mean, businesses get the benefit of your expertise and contacts and so on?”
“I’m not that altruistic,” Hugo protested. “I always make a good return on any outlay or investment.”
“Which is when you cash in and start again.” Piers raised a red-blond brow. “I’m not just a pretty face, y’know. I’m a keen observer of human nature. You left the Blues and Royals for a business opportunity with your stepfather, right? Made that into a success, got bored with it, and sold it?”
“When he died.”
“I’m thinking that’s when this all started.” Piers rubbed his short beard then snorted. “You, imagining you’d live a life of gentlemanly leisure! Lasted what, about a week? Good thing you moved here.”
“Yes. Or who else would fleece you idiots at poker every damn month?” Hugo walked over to the small group. “So, officers…any thoughts before I commission a survey of the land and structures, put in an offer to the owners. and get plans drawn up to present to you?”
“And that’s his weekend mapped out,” Piers deadpanned.
“After the dinner tonight, you mean,” Killian added. “My firm’s nominated.” He smiled his thanks at their congratulations. “You’re both going, right?”
Hugo nodded. Whyte’s, Xander’s contemporary art gallery, was nominated for a couple of awards at tonight’s annual Chamber of Commerce Business Awards dinner…and Ubermensch for one, surprisingly.
“I’m working,” Piers informed them, and Hugo threw him a sharp look of warning. Piers was, indeed, working—at the awards dinner. He was one of Ubermensch’s most popular rent-a-gentlemen, one of their dashing, distinctive male plus-one companions, that night rented by the lady owner of a packaging materials company nominated for the International Trade award. Piers knew better than to risk breeching confidentiality. Discretion was their hallmark.
“Who are you taking?” Piers asked Hugo.
“Tessa.”
“Who?”
“Tessa Flynn?”
“The gallery assistant at Whyte’s?” Piers groaned. “Mate! That’s the equivalent of taking, like, a really hot cousin to prom.”
“She is hot, isn’t she?” Hugo smiled, just to wind Piers up further. “So, I guess I’ll see you later.”
Chapter Three
“Thanks, Jeanne. Couldn’t have done it without you!”
Well, it would have been harder to tug up the zip of Keren’s blue dress without the help of Jeanne, cloakroom attendant extraordinaire at the old-fashioned Hyperion Hotel, who’d let Alessa use the staff rest room. Alessa blotted her lipstick and painted some clear-fix stuff over it, waving her hand in front of her face at the burn. She used the stuff so rarely she forgot about the sting. Wincing, she dabbed the tears away from her eyes, hopefully leaving her mascara intact, and followed Jeanne out.
“I’ll keep those here for you.” Jeanne folded the clothes Alessa had arrived in into a hotel garment bag and hung them on a peg in the long, narrow cupboard space behind the tiny wooden counter. She handed over a tiny plastic square with the peg’s number on.
“You are a lifesaver. Sorry again to have to ask to use the facilities. I hadn’t realised the dress was still at the drycleaners from last time. I was lucky enough to get there before it closed.” And lucky that Jeanne had let her avail herself of the staff rest room shower and hairdryer. “Shall I sneak you out a slice of cake?”
“No need. We get dibs on the leftovers!” Jeanne shooed her awa
y.
She’d thought having to rush to the drycleaners before it closed would make her a little early for the awards dinner, but getting ready, and doing her hair and makeup, had soaked up any time left. Still, she made for the cocktail bar, intending to wait at one of the back tables for her colleagues and catch her breath, but what she saw at the bar took her breath away.
Tall. Black dinner jacket tailor-made to show off his broad-shoulders. Gorgeous arse in black trousers. And—she bent to check—the perfect break to the presumably equally as tailored black trousers; just over the top of the shoe. The classic black Oxford shoe. She followed the line of the pants back up over long legs and…met his gaze. As if aware of her scrutiny, he’d looked around—to catch her ogling him, more precisely his backside. Alessa gawped at the strong-boned face, dark brows, and silvering hair. Her mouth fell open. Him?
“Please say you’re twins,” she pleaded, straightening up.
His forehead creased. “I’ve never heard of that kink. Is that something you’re into? What do they even call that?”
“Jesus, no.” Alessa swallowed. “I mean so you haven’t caught me embarrassing myself over you twice in one day. Can you at least pretend to be twins?”
“How would that work? As in, rushing out and hurrying back in again in different clothes?”
“Oh, please don’t. You look gorgeous in those. I love the jacket, with the peak lapels.” She pointed. “So glad it’s not a shawl collar. They look like bathrobes!”
“Thank you.” The man seemed a little taken aback. “You look gorgeous, too, obviously.”
“Thanks.” Alessa couldn’t stop her grin. Keren’s dress was rather bold, very off the shoulder, to the extent that the first time Alessa had worn it, she’d kept tugging the upper-arm sleeves up. The velvet ribbon in a darker blue around the waist made her feel feminine, as did the floor length layers of chiffon making up the skirt. “Wait. How about, if, rather than pretend to be someone else, you agree to forget about this morning?”
“That’s a hard no.” The man shook his head. “I don’t ever want to forget it. I bloody loved that kiss. I want it emblazoned on my memory for all time.”
“It was good,” Alessa agreed. “You’re good, I mean. Probably one of the best kissers I’ve ever had the pleasure of, well, kissing.”
She turned at the strangled noise behind her. A tall, very well-muscled guy with overlong wavy brown hair and heavy stubble, a man who looked vaguely familiar, stood a few feet away, pretending not to listen. He was doing about as good a job of it as the barman, who was blatantly eavesdropping. Which reminded her. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh. You don’t approve of women buying men drinks?”
“I’ve never thought about it, but I don’t think I have any objections, in general. But I owe you, remember? I didn’t pay you for the kiss like I said I would, so the least I can do is buy you a drink.”
The tall, gym-honed guy behind her spluttered a little.
“Well, when you put it like that… And doesn’t it seem a little backwards to you?” Alessa asked.
“What, that normally the buying of the drink comes before the kissing of the beautiful woman? When you put it like that… What would you like?”
“The cocktail of the day is usually good here.” Alessa raised an eyebrow at the barman.
He slung his towel over his shoulder. “It’s cognac week. Today’s is the sidecar.”
“Two, please,” the man instructed him, holding out a bar stool for Alessa to sit, not such an easy feat on a high stool with yards of flimsy chiffon curling around her legs.
Which reminded Alessa. “We really should introduce ourselves. I can’t keep thinking of you as ‘well-dressed handsome older man who’s an amazing kisser’.”
“Oh, but I like that title.” He slanted a roguish eyebrow, making their interaction shared. Intimate. “I’m thinking of changing my name to it legally. And I love thinking of you as ‘stunningly beautiful and very cheeky blonde goddess.’ But in the meantime, I’m Hugo Winters.”
“Alessa Marks.” She held out her hand and Hugo shook it, holding on to it after.
“Short for Alessandra? Beautiful.” He stroked his thumb across the back of her hand.
“Your drinks.” The bartender slid them across with a flourish, breaking the moment.
“Cheers,” Alessa said, slipping her hand free to pick up her glass. “Or, should we drink to something?” She loved the way the man—Hugo, she corrected—looked at her, really looked at her, his eyes full of a dark light.
“To…beginnings?” he suggested, easing that little bit closer, his voice that little bit peatier, or oakier.
She clinked her sugar-rimmed glass against his and took a sip of the sweet orange-lemon-brandy mix. “And endings.”
“Why?”
“I’m waiting for my partner, and I suppose you are too.” She flickered a swift glance at his hand curled around the stem of the glass. No ring, Phew. That could have been awkward. “In fact, it’s probably about time to find them, and our tables.” The thought made her feel cold and heavy, the idea of sitting with her Herald cronies not that much fun.
“I wish you were my partner.”
The way he said it, the husk to his tone, made her breath catch and made her imagine he meant much more than being seated next to her at the dinner. The way their knees touched, the stroke of his fingers against hers, with their glasses being so close together—when had that happened?—the low throb to his voice…
All she could think of was them being together in a far more private setting. One where, despite the humour and levity he’d displayed, he’d take control. She could sense it in him, knew it to be bone-deep. First, he’d allow her to loosen his bowtie and unbutton his white shirt, seeing her need to smooth her hands and rub her cheek over his chest, to inhale his scent in deep and stroke her thumbs over his nipples. But he wouldn’t permit her to undress him, ordering her to leave his shirt on, open, to frame that broad chest. Then, after gifting her with another of his mind-blowing kisses, drugging what senses remained, he’d force her to her knees in front of him, ordering her to unzip him, his strong hand in her hair holding her firmly to him, controlling the angle of her head and the depth to which she took his cock.
It would be deep, swift and sudden, almost too much, or she’d think it would be too much, threatening to choke her, to impede her airway, but his command over her would prove it wasn’t, that she breathe through her nose and take it. Take it and relish it, revel in her prowess, in the pleasure her ceding control to him brought them both.
“Alessa?”
“Yes. So do I,” she whispered, opening her eyes and breaking the silence she’d filled with images of him and her. Of them. There were so many questions she burned to ask. His age, for one. He was in fantastic shape, but—late forties? Why wasn’t he married? Why had his partner, whoever she was, let him out of her sight? Alessa probably wouldn’t. Huh. The lucky woman was probably exhausted, if Hugo’s kisses were anything to go by.
“Are you with co-workers?” Alessa settled for.
“Yes. And actually, there they are. Well, one of them.” Hugo lifted his chin at the tall, well-built, dark-haired man striding up. He must have slipped away and come back. “Xander, this is Alessa.”
“Alessandra Marks, or Sparks, from the Herald. I recognised you from your picture. Hello.” Xander’s grip was strong and, wow, he was tall. And familiar. It came to her in a second.
“Oh, Whyte’s Gallery, isn’t it? In the Old Town? You’re up for an award.”
“Yes.” He looks pleased, more at me knowing the gallery, she thought. Then his smile took off into the stratosphere and he waved at a redheaded woman to join them. “And this is Ella Stephens,” he announced, curling an arm around his partner’s tall, slim form.
“Sparks?” Hugo queried.
“My column.” Alessa shook Ella’s hand. It was delicate yet not fragile. She guessed
the relationship—engagement—between the couple was recent. Happiness exuded from their pores. Lucky beasts. Oh, well. Time to bite the bullet.
“And where’s your partner?” Alessa enquired of Hugo, trying not to grit her teeth. It would be…interesting to see who he was there with. Alessa hated her already.
“Here,” Xander said, indicating Alessa.
“What?”
“Where’s Tessa? Hugo’s gallery assistant?” Hugo added.
“Change of plan.” Xander looked smug and gleeful. “Tessa found someone else.”
“Who—”
“Sparks!” Miguel bounded up, cameras bouncing, towing a young woman with him. “This young lady, Tessa Flynn, is very interested in the media!”
I’ll bet she is. So interested her tongue’s—
“So, I said she could sit at the Herald table, and you exchange with her. You don’t mind?” After all I do for you, said his conker-brown eyes.
“No, I… If you’re happy?” she threw out to the couple, pretending she didn’t hear Xander murmuring to Hugo that he could thank Xander later. The gallery owner had known who she was from the awful pic of her the Herald used—he must have been an artist himself, with an eye like that—and had probably gone, or sent his fiancée, to the newspaper’s table to ask who her partner was, and persuaded the assistant to swap. Not that the woman needed much persuasion. But why? Perhaps Xander didn’t approve of management—or owners; Hugo could be a part-owner of the gallery—fraternising with staff? She shot a glance at Hugo, who was watching Miguel and Tessa, wasn’t it? rush away.
“Does he do this a lot, set you up with women?” she asked.
“Not me, no.”
Alessa didn’t get why everyone was grinning. “No, I wouldn’t have thought so.” Hugo wouldn’t have much difficulty getting a date. The grinning must have been contagious—her mouth was curling up too. “But you’re not too angry at your friend?”
“Not at all. I’m just wondering what he’ll demand in return for facilitating this.”
“He’s a bit heavy-handed,” muttered Ella, “And rather quick and impulsive, when he wants something.” She rubbed her engagement ring against the silk of her dress and Alessa felt there was a story there. Maybe she’d get to hear it.
Whispers of Winter: A Limited Edition Collection of Winter Romances Page 79
